


Everything was Unfinished

by Control_Room



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Choose Your Own Ending, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Intrusive Thoughts, Maybe - Freeform, Pain, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slurs, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:30:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: Joey, no matter what he tried, no matter what he did, never finished anything.///I'm not rating this because. I'm so bewildered. I don't know what this would even be rated.





	Everything was Unfinished

Unfinished.

 

It all was so stupid.

 

There was no point to anything anymore.

 

Henry left.

 

No explanation.

 

No rhyme or reason.

 

Just gone.

 

Wrote a note, sure.

 

Put it on Joey’s bedside.

 

After using him.

 

Their first (and, in all respects, with how it looked, last) time, Joey dreaming that he woke up to warm arms around him.

 

A flash of hope.

 

He was alone, when he opened his eyes.

 

He, at first, thought (he hoped and begged it was a dream) none of it happened.

 

But it did. He knew it did.

 

His clothes strewn around the room, his glasses on the wrong side of the bed.

 

The feeling deep inside that should have felt good and warm.

 

It made him feel empty and lifeless.

 

Unfinished.

 

Everything was unfinished in his life.

 

He could not even have a fulfilling day with the man he loved more than anyone or anything.

 

A strangled (unfinished) sob tore at his throat.

 

He read the note over and over.

 

Nothing made sense, nothing mattered.

 

“Joey,” it started, no preamble, no apologies, an unfinished name, “We don’t work.”

 

Was it his personality? He could change! He could be better! He could, anything!

 

Was it his body!? What could he do!? He could pleasure him, he would not have to look at him, just lay back and relax, please….

 

Was it how he acted at work, his facade of ‘Joey Drew’, that mirror out of sync? He could drop it, and go back to being simple nervous Johan Ramirez, he’d give the company over to Henry if that’s what he wanted, anything, anything… please….

 

“Goodbye.”

 

Why!?

 

“Henry Stein.”

 

The name burned right through his chest, in his lungs, his ribs, his throat, his heart.

 

Did it mean anything?

 

Unfinished meals started following him.

 

Plates of half done food, if eaten at all.

 

He did not want to eat.

 

He lost even more weight.

 

The piteous whispers that circled him!

 

The rumors!

 

The damned  **polio** .

 

“Joey seems so sad,” shut up Sammy.

 

“Have you been eating?” I don’t care Norman.

 

“What’s with the limp?” None of your business Wally.

 

Falling asleep in meetings.

 

Forgetting to sign cheques.

 

Catching Henry in his thoughts.

 

All things unfinished.

 

The unfinished machine sitting on his desk.

 

He called it a binary computer.

 

That was what it did, it computed and revealed all the ones and zeroes that made up the world.

 

He could manipulate them.

 

He never ran out of money for the studio. 

 

There were no competitors.

 

They were erased.

 

Money was created.

 

Time was meaningless, he could rewind one exact moment to placate Lacie or flash forward to the night time when he could lay on his (soiled, ruined, cursed, forsaken, used used used incomplete broken broken broken broken broken) bed and ignore all his thoughts (slut, whore, bitch, deviant deviant liar cheater faker imposter imposter imposter imposter).

 

He edited his code.

 

He was always smiling.

 

Everyone thought it was genuine.

 

His emotions always matched the circumstances they should.

 

He did not feel anything for the other (male) members (ohhhh god he did) of the studio (he wished Thomas would lash out at him and use him), and he was doing fine (he wanted Grant to slap him and force him to the ground), nothing to worry about (when was the last time he ate?).

 

He replayed the scene with Henry making a move on  _ him _ , in his office, that afternoon, the afternoon that seemed like it would make everything better, the afternoon that came to haunt him every single agonizing day. He replayed it over and over, his heart dropping every time he noticed another falseness in Henry’s attitude.

 

He lead him on to create an excuse to leave.

 

He smashed Henry’s desk to bits over and over and over and over and (slut) over and (useless) over and over and over (pathetic) and over… and slumped into the chair, shuddering and sobbing.

 

Worthless worthless worthless….

 

Used, useless, used used….

 

Just another toy.

 

He rose his head slowly, an anger burning in his eyes.

 

He was just a joke to the universe, was he not?

 

Haha… joke’s on it, he supposed, getting up fluidly, moving unnaturally, his grin so wide he felt it may break his face, his facade, the forced happiness, the fake Joey Drew, a liar and a thief.

 

He could have made Henry love him.

 

He could have forced him to.

 

He would have been none the wiser. 

 

But he did not.

 

He desperately tried and tried and (failure) and tried and (you’re nothing) and tried and tried and tried (no progress) and tried (why didn’t you jump when you had the chance?) and tried… but never to any avail.

 

He stared at the screen.

 

He could do it.

 

Get rid of everything that ever made Johan Ramirez.

 

He did not.

 

Not yet.

 

He went home.

  
  
  


Arms tight around him.

 

Hands pinning him to the wall.

 

Panting.

 

How was he here?

 

Why was he here?

 

Why was he kissing him?

 

Henry’s leg tight between his thighs, and he hated it.

 

He hated how much he wanted it.

 

He hated how much he needed it.

 

He hated how much he loved it.

 

He was begging, he knew he was, words spilling from his lips.

 

‘Please stay,’ he pleaded.

 

‘Don’t leave me,’ he beseeched.

 

‘Anything, please… don’t go….’ he implored.

 

‘Tell me what I can do to fix me,’ he prayed, begged, sobbed, hoped.

 

Henry just kissed him harder.

 

“Is this even real?” he demanded of the universe.

 

Henry’s hands stopped.

 

“Is it?”

 

“Henry… stop doing this to me….”

 

“Well?”

 

“You’re making me go crazy….”

 

“Johan. Look me in the eyes… right there, babe,” a sob tore straight through his throat. “Oh yeah, it’s real. Do you want it to be?”

 

“If I’m going to wake up alone in the morning… no. Never. I hate this, I hate it, I hate… I hate you.”

 

Henry looked like Joey had slapped him.

 

“What?!”

 

“You left me, no explanation. No resignation. No complaint, no reason, you tore me to shreds, and I hate you because I love you still. I love you to every fibre of my being, ever bit, every gigabit if I’m even worth that, every strand of coded DNA, I love you… but you… you hate me, you hate me so much, I’m not worth your time, I’m not worth your love or your hate… I want your love. I want you to love me, I want to be loved and happy… but you left me in a heartbeat.”

 

Warm lips back on his.

 

“I love you, I’m so sorry,” Henry murmured, their foreheads pressed together. “I’m so so sorry, I love you… I never knew how bad I hurt you… I should have… I’ve been so selfish….”

 

“I can’t trust you,” Joey gasped in his sobs. Henry’s arms wound around him, rocking him gently, only whispering ‘I’m sorry’. “You lied to me….”

 

“Give me a chance,” he implored. “I’ll make it up to you.”

 

Joey stared into blue, beautiful, vivacious, hypnotic, loving, loving, loving eyes….

 

He collapsed, days of no food (had it been a month already?) taking their toll, sleepless nights (god the nightmares) retracting his strength, exhausting days (animating all alone is a silent studio may also have stolen from his sanity) sapping his life, Henry’s arms (so strong, so beautiful, so incredible) catching him. 

 

Warm and sweet kisses pressed all over him.

 

Questions he could barely manage to answer (no he did not know his milk was expired, no he did not know there were six empty bottles in the sink, no he did not know when the last time he drank something, anything at all, had been).

 

Love shifted into worry and concern, tangled with love and compassion.

  
  


He woke up alone.

 

He screamed.

 

As loud and as hard and as anguished and as bitter and pained he could muster with such a weak and weakening body, screaming out his sadness and hurt and longing in one breath, his windows rattling, his head pounding, his heart’s shattered pieced stamped on until they lost all meaning.

 

It was all a lie, an illusion, some sick nightmare his brain concocted to torture him.

 

Sick, deviant, freak, faggot, sod, shit, cocksuck, pathetic useless slut, nothing, gay, gay, what a funny word!

 

Happiness!

 

Gay!

 

Laugh, bitch!

 

Hahahanothinghhahhahasluthahhahahhhahahhadiediediehahahahayousickfuckhahahahah

 

Running footsteps.

 

Door banging open.

 

Cannot breathe.

 

Arms wrapping around him.

 

Sobs slowing.

 

Kisses on his arms.

 

Kisses on his shoulders.

 

Kisses on his cheeks, on his eyelids, on his ears.

 

A long, slow, salty kiss on his lips.

 

Tears.

 

So many tears in reality, so many tears in reality….

 

“I’m sorry,” whispered within his hair. “I was turning on the kettle, I didn’t realize you’d be so sensitive… I should have. I should have. I’m here, Joey, Johan, breathe with me, I’m right here.”

 

Hiccuping sobs, burying his face against his chest.

 

“I won’t leave you.”

 

“Are you even real?”

 

“I sure hope so.”

 

He wa

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. The story is unfinished.
> 
> Now answer for yourself: “s.” or “s’nt.”


End file.
